


Obviously

by trinityofone



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Comeplay, Exhibitionism, Feminization, M/M, Nipple Play, Shane Madej Has a Big Dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21534529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityofone/pseuds/trinityofone
Summary: "I don't have a fetish for nipples." —Ryan Bergara, a liar
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Comments: 23
Kudos: 535
Collections: The Ghosts Are Watching





	Obviously

**Author's Note:**

> So I've barely been able to write for over a year, but, y'know, have some nipple porn. Ryan has _really_ been asking for it.
> 
> This fic is also Siria's fault.

It’s a joke, obviously, just another bit—like the belly button thing, wherever that came from. Some strange notion that they started riffing on and just never stopped, because both Ryan and Shane are somehow miswired to think a joke is funnier the longer it goes on. Dumb and long, that’s how they like their bits: even and especially when everyone around them is audibly groaning and wants to murder them maybe.

The nipple thing is like that. 

Shane claims he doesn’t like it but it’s like four months later and they’re still doing it, still circling back, referencing it at the slightest provocation—they both like a call back, too, him and Shane. And Ryan likes to see Shane blush and squirm, it’s so atypical and it makes it even funnier, that this makes Shane uncomfortable, Shane who’s not afraid of anything. Ryan touches himself through the thin fabric of his t-shirt and Shane’s eyes go comically wide behind his glasses and Katie says, “Dammit, we are _not_ doing this bit again,” and Ryan’s already laughing as Shane says, “Oh, but Ryan loves playing with his tiddies.”

He’s joking, obviously—he uses the word _tiddies_ , for christsake—but Ryan feels a stab of heat, an odd zip of connection beneath where his fingers are brushing and his groin. It rushes through him, carried on the whining drawl of Shane’s voice.

“They’re not—” says Ryan, and great, _he’s_ blushing now, and that’s not what’s funny about this, that’s not the point of this bit, dammit!

Shane pushes his glasses up his nose. “Katie,” he snaps, with exaggerated annoyance, “you’ve made Ryan embarrassed about his beautiful body! His luscious curves, his sweet little sugar tits—”

“Oh my god,” says someone off camera—the blood’s rushing too loudly in Ryan’s ears for him to be able to tell who.

It’s then Ryan realizes that he’s frozen like a deer in headlights, the tips of his fingers still resting against his chest, and oh fuck, his nipples are rock hard. They’re tight little pebbles under his fingertips, and as he slowly and deliberately drops his hand, his right thumbnail scrapes and—

There’s a nearby dimension where Ryan pushes back his chair so hard and fast, it scrapes two long grooves in the floor; in that universe, he runs to the bathroom, barely shuts the door before he’s pushing one hand down his pants and the other up his shirt. 

In this world, though, he’s like...vaguely a professional? And a grown-up with a modicum of dignity and self control? So he grits his teeth and keeps it together and just sweats a lot until they finish shooting.

Once he gets home, though, once he’s alone, he locks his door and lies trembling on the bed, fisting his cock with one hand while the other circles his right nipple, thumbs it roughly and then more gently and it’s so, so good and yet _painfully_ not enough, just a tease of stimulation when he wants, what he really wants—

—Shane’s voice in his head, _You love playing with your titties, don’t you?_ —

“Fuck,” Ryan says, and comes.

* * *

So like, obviously, this is a sign that he should stop. With the bit. Which may not be a bit, but a blatant airing of Ryan’s weird secret kink in front of the whole internet. 

In a nearby dimension, where Ryan is _actually_ a professional, and a _successful_ adult—well surely there, in that Bizarro world, Ryan stops.

But Ryan in no way actually stops.

Ryan, being invariably, inevitably himself, in fact doubles down.

“Oh, you know you like it when I play with my tiddies, don’t you?” he says to Shane.

Shane definitely said something to provoke him, to provoke the whole bit: definitely. Ryan couldn’t not lean up against this crusty old wall—they’re on location this time—and rub the sharp points of his nipples where they’re pressing against the incredibly tight t-shirt he definitely didn’t wear specifically for this purpose. He couldn’t not cup the underside of his pec, lift it a little toward Shane—Shane who’s staring bug-eyed, Shane whose tongue has darted out, moistened his quivering lower lip. _Haha, got you, asshole!_ Ryan thinks, and then in short succession thinks, _Fuck, I’m so hard right now._

Shane, meanwhile, is shifting his long giraffe legs uncomfortably; he’s wearing those stupid extra-skinny brown jeans, and there’s...a lot going on there, even more than usual. Not that Ryan has looked, or is looking.

Oh who is he kidding. He is absolutely looking. 

Shane is watching Ryan look, and watching Ryan touch himself, and then he swallows heavily and says, “I’m not sure about your technique.”

“My _technique_?”

“Yeah.” Shane shifts, Shane coughs, Shane tries and fails to look casual. Then his voice comes out, weirdly steady: “You’re just sort of absently rubbing. There’s no escalation. You’re not really _building_ to anything.”

“Oh, and I suppose you can do better, Mister… Nippleplay Expert?” On one level, Shane is right: the way Ryan’s fingers are still circling, it’s like he’s on automatic; he’s entirely lost control of his body and exists only in connection to those three electric points.

Beside him, not touching him but close, so close, Shane heaves out a breath. He says, “ _Yeah_.”

“So...I am going to set up the next shot now,” says the typically unflappable Mark, sounding somewhat flapped. Ryan barely even notices him leave.

He’s too busy hissing, “Oh fuck,” at Shane, and Shane says, “ _yeah_ ,” again in that low, urgent voice. Shane’s head is bent, his eyes hooded. His knuckles are white where they’re squeezing the skinny nothings he calls hips.

There’s a weird, difficult moment where Ryan forces himself to drop his hands to his sides. He’s tingling all over.

“So some sort of horrible accident is going to have to befall that footage,” Ryan says, voice a croak. He’s still floating at least three feet above his physical body and is surprised his mouth works at all.

“Uh huh.”

“And we gotta go back out there and finish investigating this, uh…”

“Not-haunted haunted stables.” 

“Right.” Right, that’s where they are. “And then we’ll go…”

“We’ll go straight back…”

“...to the hotel.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” says Shane, and he sounds wrecked.

It should be hilarious.

It’s not.

* * *

Strangely, as half the internet will gleefully point out later, Ryan didn’t devote much energy to persuading Shane that that racetrack is totally haunted.

* * *

Ryan’s barely inside before he’s tearing off his jacket. His back hits the hotel room door as soon as it’s closed. He reaches for the collar of his shirt, ready to yank it over his head and rip it to pieces, if necessary, but Shane bats his hands away. 

“No,” he says. His gaze is laser-focused. Shane, Ryan realizes, isn’t kidding around. Shane is _deadly serious_ , and Ryan lets out a groan before he’s even touched.

Shane’s hands start at his waist, steadying. Slowly they move up the sides of his chest. Ryan can feel the weight of his stare, the way he’s studying Ryan’s body; Ryan shivers and whines, “Hurry up.”

“No,” Shane says again. “Wanna...gotta do this right.”

“You gonna…” Ryan has to squeeze his eyes shut to say it. “You gonna put your hands on me? You gonna play with my tits?”

His hips buck involuntarily. 

“Jesus,” Shane says, bracing Ryan’s thighs between the long stretch of his legs. “You’re so into this.”

Ryan’s eyes are still closed. He can feel himself blush. “I know.”

Shane’s hands are bracketing his ribs. He splays his fingers, inching up.

“Me too. Fuck, Ryan. This was really not something I was expecting to discover about myself.”

Ryan’s eyes fly open. “What about _me_? You think _I_ was expecting—”

“Well, our show is very educational,” Shane says, dreamily, cupping Ryan’s pecs from below. He squeezes them, gently, and then his thumbs arc up and—

“Oh fuck,” Ryan says. He head hits the door. “Shane—”

It’s so good it’s kind of painful, and it’s nothing more than the softest touch: Shane’s thumb scraping across the material of his t-shirt, gently rubbing the soft fabric over his nipple. Yet it’s got Ryan moaning and grinding down hard against Shane’s helpfully canted thigh.

“Yeah,” Shane murmurs. “Yeah, you like that? You like it when I—”

Peeking up through fluttering eyelids, Ryan can see Shane stutter and flush.

“Say it,” Ryan says.

“Oh fuck.” Despite Shane’s claims to finesse, by now his fingers are bunching semi-helplessly in Ryan’s shirt. Yet somehow the heel of his knuckle or the edge of his nail keeps catching in just...the right...way… and it’s so good Ryan can’t stand it, Ryan wants to dissolve into it. Let there be _this_ and _this_ and _only this_ —

“ _Say it_ ,” he hisses.

“You _like_ it,” Shane says, “you like it when I rub your nipples and touch your sweet, beautiful ti—”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Because _yes yes yes_ it’s perfect: like all their dumb banter Shane always picks it up and carries it and takes it exactly right where Ryan wants it to go, and Ryan is _so_ into it, Ryan loves it so much he takes the breath right from Shane’s mouth. He kisses him hungrily, humping his leg and pushing off the beleaguered door and practically hurling them toward the bed.

Ryan’s shirt comes off now with very little protest from Shane, and then Shane’s returning one last sloppy kiss before dropping his mouth downward, down where it belongs, wet lips puckered and pressed around Ryan’s left nipple. Ryan keens and comes off the bed: he feels like a bucking horse. Maybe the racetrack _was_ haunted and he’s possessed by a ghost horse, Ryan thinks wildly. It would make about as much sense as anything.

As much sense as Ryan clenching the sheets, head thrown back as Shane licks and nips and nuzzles at his chest, repeating, “Yeah, that’s right: suck on my tits, suck on my tits” until his dick feels like it’s going to tear straight through his jeans. 

“Ugh,” he groans, “get my pants off, I gotta get my pants off.”

“Shit, yeah, me too,” says Shane, so hurriedly, they take their pants off.

“Fuck,” says Ryan, breaking briefly through the kinky sex haze, because: _fuck_. “You’ve got a big dick.”

Shane’s skinny little coathanger shoulders bob. “Yeah.” He sounds almost apologetic.

“I like it,” Ryan says encouragingly, at first because he doesn’t want to hurt Shane’s feelings, and then deciding then and there that he does like it. He really really does.

“Thanks,” Shane says. “I like yours too.”

“‘S not as big,” says Ryan, gesturing toward it, which somehow turns into holding it, stroking it; which somehow turns into Shane closing his hand around Ryan’s hand, and lowering them back onto the bed. 

“It’s okay.” Shane kisses him, eager and open mouthed: the corner of his mouth, the line of his jaw. Ryan kisses Shane back, then divests himself of his hand, wrapping it instead around Shane’s big, dumb dick. “You make up for it up here.” 

He nuzzles Ryan’s chest, nosing in the shallow space between Ryan’s pecs, acting like there’s really something there— _cleavage_ or something. Ryan squirms. He’s so hard, pumping into Shane’s fist. “With your big, sweet titties,” Shane says, grinning down at Ryan, laughing at his own joke even as he writhes and gasps.

“Oh, fuck you,” Ryan says. “You love them.” He circles his thumb around the head of Shane’s cock. Shane’s hips stutter in a very satisfying fashion.

“I _do_ ,” Shane gasps out. “And I’m trying, buddy.”

“Trying?” Ryan’s panting so hard he can barely get the word out.

“To _fuck_ you.”

“That doesn’t even—” Ryan starts, and then he suddenly pictures it, or the slide of Shane’s hand hits in a particularly good way, or Shane lets go and then Ryan lets go so it’s just their cocks rubbing together, a good old-fashioned frot, the simple slide of skin on sweaty skin. Shane groans, jaw contorting as he braces himself on one elbow, reaches up between their bodies and pinches the nub of Ryan’s stiff nipple between forefinger and thumb.

Ryan makes a noise and comes an embarrassing amount. But Shane comes too not long after, so it’s fine.

Shane rolls off of him and they lie there, breathing heavily, not quite looking at each other.

There is come all over Ryan’s belly, all over his chest. He touches it, because he’s a guy, and he’s gross, and Shane sees him touch it. A thoughtful look appears on his face. 

“What,” Ryan says, because _that’s_ always concerning.

“What?” Shane asks innocently.

“What are you thinking?”

“What are _you_ thinking?”

For some reason Ryan says: “I’m thinking about how there’s a dimension where I let you feel me up right there in the stable.”

Shane’s eyes go wide. “That _is_ an interesting thought.”

“But obviously in _this_ dimension we’re professional adults, so no,” says Ryan, idly swirling a finger through the spunk on his chest.

“Right,” says Shane, then says, “I was thinking about doing this.”

Propped on his side, he scoops his fingers alongside Ryan’s, drawing them up over Ryan’s stomach and ribs and before circling a dollop of their smeared come over Ryan’s abused and eager chest.

“Just a thought I had,” Shane says.

It is physically impossible for Ryan’s dick to get hard again right now. His nipples apparently operate under no such restriction. 

“Oh fuck,” Ryan says, sinking liquid into the sheets. “This is going to become a thing, isn’t it?”

“Obviously,” Shane says. “A thing,” his finger circles, “a habit,” tighter, closer, “an addiction—” He gives Ryan’s nipple a flick, somehow still mesmerized, as mesmerized as Ryan. 

Ryan realizes that on some level he thought that one time could satisfy his curiosity, relieve the tension, break the spell. But it hasn’t. It’s done the opposite. They’ve solved nothing. 

The look Shane gives him is as affectionate as it is knowing. “We’ve never been very good at figuring out when to stop, have we?”

“No,” Ryan says with a sigh: giving up, arching helplessly into Shane’s touch. “Never.”


End file.
